


The Wrong time

by Valeria2067



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-31 02:46:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/339023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valeria2067/pseuds/Valeria2067
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock meets and falls madly in love with John Watson. Unfortunately, this is a few years AFTER Sherlock gave in and married Molly Hooper. To make matters worse, Sherlock has dreams which threaten to destroy what's left of his sanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Long before Sherlock ever met John, he decided to marry Molly.

She was sweet. And she was kind. And they worked closely together. Was she exciting? No, but Sherlock didn’t feel he deserved exciting, anyway, after some of the things he’d done in his life. And after some very bad experiences with over-zealous women, he found shy, sweet Molly to be safe and comfortable.

And it made people stop pestering him about “settling down” at his age. He could concentrate on his work. Finally.

Her family felt a certain disdain for him, but they treated her the same way. Sherlock’s colleagues, of course, thought the marriage was the cutest thing ever. Wild, eccentric Sherlock and sweet, little buttoned-down Molly. She’d tame him.

And that is what, sweetly and kindly, and for his own good, she proceeded to do. She didn’t believe in “going all the way” before marriage, and Sherlock respected that, of course, even if he would have preferred to have more data.  Sex was awkward on their wedding night, but that’s to be expected.

After a few months, it got a bit better. It wasn’t really what Sherlock wanted in the bedroom, and even though Molly really wished to please him, she couldn’t bring herself to do things she just firmly believed were “wrong.”  And Sherlock wasn’t going to make her feel uncomfortable. He wasn’t a monster. Not really.

Then came the issue of children. Sherlock had assumed he could put that off, had discussed it at length and agreed - he thought - that children might not be a good idea. But Molly could not bring herself to give up the idea. So sex soon became an obstacle. Molly refused to use birth control herself, and she refused have sex with Sherlock if he wore a condom or if he withdrew at the last moment.  This meant that Sherlock and Molly just did without most of the time. 

They still worked together. They still laughed at some of the same in-jokes.  They were still friends. Sherlock relied on Molly’s steady income. And he saw the pain in her eyes when she thought there was a chance he might leave. How could he leave? How could he destroy someone so good, so wholesome? Someone who loved him despite his myriad flaws.

Then, one day, Sherlock Holmes met John Watson.

And when his finger touched John’s wrist, electricity passed through his body and into his bloodstream. Everything hummed. 

What. The. Hell. Was. This?

He found himself looking for excuses to collaborate on cases with John.

We’re just friends. We’re men, after all. And boyfriends are not really my area. I’ve never been attracted to men.

John had been with men and women. John could laugh and tell stories about some of those times and, God, when he described sex with other men, it burned Sherlock up with lust. 

He started ignoring almost everything except his work with John, his emails and chats and conversations with John.  

One night, after a particularly heady case, John and Sherlock kissed. 

It was like Sherlock’s heart and body had been let out of a tiny cage.

He told John that he couldn’t change his life. John understood. He would take what Sherlock could give. They would have their relationship secretly, through texts, phone calls, emails, brief meetings.

The sex, oh LORD the sex with John. It made him want to weep with fulfillment. John knew what to give him, how far to go, what to say, where to touch, how much to hold him down, how much to let him go. Sherlock wanted sex with John every day. Many times a day, if he could. But that wasn’t exactly possible.

So they were stuck with late-night trysts or phone sex or cyber-sex.  They texted, and the word “love” came easily. It felt real and right.

But “real life” always separated them. And when Sherlock didn’t have access to John, he felt angry, confused, nervous, depressed.

Molly tried to console him, but she didn’t know why he was so upset, and Sherlock sure as hell couldn’t tell her. It would kill her. Tell her he was in love with a man? “You’re not gay! We’re together!” would be her response. She didn’t even, strictly speaking, believe that homosexuality was more than a rebellious, confused phase. And it was also really, really, icky, wasn’t it? 

So she would touch his shoulder, or hug him, and it made Sherlock’s skin crawl. He didn’t want these touches. He wanted the ones that set him on fire and made him feel complete.

The more he resented Molly, the more he hated himself for it. This wasn’t HER fault. And the closer he got to John, the more he hated himself for dragging him into a situation that very probably could not go beyond what it was.

That’s when the madman started visiting him in his dreams. 

Slim, well-dressed, with a soft Irish accent, he filled Sherlock’s dreams.. every night…. with explosions, fear, death, ruin. And he would whisper in Sherlock’s ear, or sometimes shout in his face, “This is YOUR fault. YOU are hurting everyone. This wouldn’t happen if not for YOU and your selfish desires. What a monster you’ve become. Just like me.”

Every night, it got stronger.

After a few days of it, Sherlock feared that visits from the madman would destroy his brain and leave nothing left but an empty shell.

And after a few weeks of it, Sherlock began to fear that they  _wouldn’t_.


	2. The Madman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Madman continues to visit Sherlock's dreams. The effects begin to spill over into waking life, with potentially dire consequences.

Sherlock hadn't seen John in person or even heard his voice on the phone for a month.  They'd been forced to rely on internet chats late at night, while Molly slept soundly in the next room.  Sherlock didn't even dare use video conferencing, for fear his wife would hear the voices (and heaven knows, the things she would hear would not be exactly platonic). So chat it had to be.

 

_JohnHWatson: God, you are amazing. Sexy AND brilliant, you are, Mr. Holmes._

_SHolmes: Those terms apply more precisely to you, my dear doctor. Three orgasms in barely two days is well beyond my personal record. I have you to thank._

_JohnHWatson: Well, as your doctor, I encourage you to go to sleep, now. You need rest, and it's half-two in the morning._

_SHolmes: Sound medical advice. Now what do you advise as my lover?_

_JohnHWatson: I advise to rest now, because I intend to ravish you mercilessly like this again tomorrow night. ;-)_

_SHolmes: Emoticons? We are grown men, John, not prepubescent girls._

_JohnHWatson: Oh. Right.  :P_

_SHolmes: And what does that one mean, may I ask?_

_JohnHWatson: Tongue sticking out._

_SHolmes: That would have been more appropriate ten minutes ago, wouldn't you agree?_

_JohnHWatson: Just go to bed, you sarcastic, gorgeous git._

_SHolmes: As you wish._

_JohnHWatson: I love you._

_SHolmes: I love you, John._

 

Sleep rarely visited Sherlock quickly after his sessions with John, unless those sessions were in person and he could lose himself in the other man's warmth.  In his cold bed alone (Molly had long since taken up sleeping in the guest room to avoid Sherlock's tendency to toss and turn and pace), Sherlock found his body tense and his mind racing. He wanted John. Correction: he needed John - it was a physical need, stronger than his addictions to nicotine and cocaine had been.  Stronger than his other bodily needs. 

But he also needed to keep his word to Molly. There would be no way to prepare for this, and if he told her, told her everything he felt and dreamed regarding John, she would very likely shatter into a million jagged pieces on the spot.  

If they'd never married, Molly would have handled the rejection. She'd done so for quite a while, he knew. In fact, that strength was one of the qualities he admired. Marriage, however, had changed her, and she had grafted her heart and soul onto Sherlock's - as a good spouse does, she'd say.  "We're not just husband and wife, you know; we're soulmates, now. We belong only to each other.  I'll always belong to you, Sherlock. Only to you and no one else."

The constant bitter sting in Sherlock's gorge had a name....what was it... Ah, yes.  Wracking Guilt.  The sensation made quite an interesting companion to the other one that had taken up permanent residence in Sherlock's chest:  Aching, Ravenous Want.  

He imagined he might fall asleep one night, and awake to find that one of them had consumed the other. 

The idea of that was almost more painful than living with both.

Within a few hours, though, Sleep finally did arrive.

**

Sherlock found himself sitting on a park bench on a cold, frosty afternoon.  Odd, as it was Springtime only days ago.  Why was there newly-melted snow on the ground? The last snowfall had been sometime last month. 

And why were there children playing nearby dressed in light, summer-weight clothing? And why was the sky... lavender?

"You like the touch with the lavender?  It's a favourite of mine, Sherlock. Fits nearly every occasion."

A slim, well-dressed man appeared on the bench next to Sherlock. Between bites of a round, ripe apple, he spoke in a soft, lilting Irish accent. "Brings out the colour of my eyes, too!"

The Madman.

"And what scenario will I be dreaming tonight, may I ask?" Sherlock drew his coat tighter around his chest.

The Madman smiled and used a small pocket knife to carve another bit out of the apple.

"Are you really so sure these are just dreams, Sherlock?" He took a small bite, then continued to speak as he chewed, "I mean, how would one go about proving which experiences are real, anyway?  You can't use the laws of physics; those could just be fantasies from that particular dream.  Our universe right here has laws of physics.."

He put the index finger of his right hand against his thumb, raised it toward an elderly gentleman walking several metres away, and made a flicking motion.

The elderly man fell, writhing, to the ground, then exploded into a pufff of dust.

"Boom!" The Madman giggled.

Sherlock looked away in disgust.

"Aww, now, don't feel bad for gwampa, Sherwock. He was going to die next week, anyway. I saved him six more days of his BORING ordinary life.  Ohhh... speaking of boring, look at her.."

Moriarty took aim at a young woman sitting alone, reading a thick novel. "Bye-Bye, Miss Lonely Heart! The ending of that book sucks, so you're not missing out..BOOM!" The young woman let out a strangled cry, then disintegrated just as the elderly man had done. The madman made a mock-worried grimace. "Gee, I hope one of her neighbours will drop by to feed the cats!"

"Are you quite finished?" Sherlock attempted to sound bored, rather than horrified.

"Oh, you are NO fun, are you, my dear? Really, TELL me this isn't hilarious. In fact, I'll let you pick the next one. Go on.." He took Sherlock's hand and raised it, positioning Sherlock's elegant fingers and thumb just so. 

Despite The Madman's smaller stature and more delicate frame, he easlily held Sherlock's arm still, no matter how hard Sherlock tried to pull away.

"Stop this." Sherlock growled.

The Madman only grinned and moved Sherlock's poised fingers from target to target. "How about that one, eh? Family picnic? What do you say, one at a time or all three at once? You call it!"

Sherlock clamped his jaw and willed his fingers to remain still.

"No? Well, I think Mummy deserves the first shot... god-awful sandwiches she made. So.. heeere we go... BOOM!" of its own accord, Sherlock's finger flicked out. The woman seated on the picnic blanket screamed in pain, then exploded into ash right next to her husband and three-year-old child.  They, in turn, cried out in fear and distress. "Oh, no... Looks like Daddy has to go bye-bye, too, Junior. He won't be coming home again, I'm afraid." The Madman moved Sherlock's hand by a few degrees. "BOOM!" 

No matter how hard Sherlock tried to look away, he could not control the movement or focus of his eyes. He couldn't even close them.

"Please.." Sherlock said, voice shaking, "Enough."

"Oh, you ARE a monster, Sherlock. Leave little Junior like that? Screaming and crying into the ashes of Mum and Dad?  Gee, and I thought _I_ was the one who liked torture.  Well, as you wish."  He moved Sherlock's hand just a little, then moved it back to target the child. "No, Sherlock, I can't let you do that. You couldn't live with yourself if you let baby-boy suffer.  Here you go, kid. On the house. BOOM!"  Sherlock's finger snapped outward and the child vanished, mid-wail.

_They're not real. Not real. None of this is real._

"God, Sherlock, you are so BORING. So DULL sometimes. Of COURSE they're real!  And not just real in this world. Oh no. Check the papers tomorrow, if you don't believe me.  'unexplained deaths - tragic loss of small family' all of it. Dear me, Sherlock. You couldn't guess? All that sex must be making you stupid."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "You sound jealous. Or are you some manifestation of my latent Puritanical conscience?"

"Jiminy Cricket. Yes! Perfect, yes!  That's me. But I think I'm too late to turn you into a real boy.  Your darling Johnny did that for us, didn't he?" The Madman gave Sherlock an obscene leer.  "Too bad you have to go back to being a wooden puppet every time he leaves, huh?  The little wife pulling on your strings...."

"Pinocchio had no strings. Do try to keep your literary metaphors accurate."

"Mmmm... Right. But you DO have strings, don't you, Sherlock?"  The Madman poked Sherlock's sternum, hard, several times. "And they're Right. In. Here."

Sherlock huffed. "What would a creature like you know of that. I can't imagine you feel love, at least not for anything but yourself."

"Love?  LOVE?  Oh, oh! You are killing today!  -oh, no pun intended, sorry- Ha!  No, no, no, Sherlock.  Those strings aren't love. They're HATE."

At this, Sherlock somehow found the strength to stand and look down at the grinning man.

"I do not...do NOT... hate my wife. She is a kind, though misguided, human being. That she cannot be what I need is... regrettable.  And I will concede that I would prefer to spend my time elsewhere, but that is not entirely her fault. She didn't know.... I didn't know."  Sherlock's jaw muscles work as he attempted to remain calm. "I do not HATE her."

The Madman stood up, stepped so close to Sherlock their faces were nearly touching each other. "You're just getting everything wrong today, darling, aren't you? You don't hate your wife. No. No, Sherlock. Don't you see anything? You hate.... YOURSELF."  He curled his index finger and thumb together, and placed them against Sherlock's forehead.

"BOOM"

** 

Sherlock woke with a jolt, covered in sweat, aching in every muscle of his body. He sat upright and scanned the empty room. The clock showed one hour had passed since the last time he remembered checking.

He let himself fall back onto the bed.

Teardrops began to leak from the edges of his eyes, but he did not make sobbing sounds. 

He only allowed himself one soft, drawn-out whisper.

_"John...."_

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock heard the front door open and shut, and he took a deep breath to steel himself for the onslaught. Well, it would be a hello, and a few moments of conversation, but to him it was one of the hardest parts of his day, if you could call the barely-broken hours of languishing through daylight and nighttime a ‘day’ at all.   

Molly opened the door to Sherlock’s bedroom, and walked over to stand, nervously, at his bedside. “Still in bed?”

_No. I’m climbing Mount Kilimanjaro at the moment. Care to join me?_

“It would appear so.”

Molly stood there, wringing her hands. She was going to sit down on the edge of the bed sooner or later. _Just get it over with for God’s sake._

_Stop this. She only wants to help. Stop resenting her._

“Look, Love,” she began, “You’re sleeping all day, and it’s been over a week…”

“I’m not sleeping. I am in bed.  And it has been ten days, thirteen hours, forty-three minutes”

She sat down on the bed.

“I think you should talk to someone. A doctor.”

_I am talking to a doctor. Texting him. Chatting with him online. That’s part of the problem._

“Thank you, but I doubt a doctor could help me in my present circumstances.”

“Well, I made an appointment for you for day after tomorrow.  A friend recommended him. This doctor can prescribe something and he can also listen to you.  He’s, um, kind of direct, but I figured you’d like that?”

Sherlock let out a long, pained sigh.

“Great. I’m so glad you’re going to get help.  So. What should we have for dinner?”

“You eat. I’m not hungry.”

“Okay.  Are you coming out to watch TV with me?”

Sherlock looked at her pained, lonely face. All she wanted was a few moments of silent companionship. She had no idea what was going on in his life. She had no idea that her love was being undermined thousands of times a day, with each thought and wish and each gasping sob he hid from her. So why couldn’t he just do this? Just get up, sit on the sofa for an hour. Just one hour. Let her feel like everything was normal.

“I don’t think so. Not tonight.”

“Okay.” Molly stood up, smiled weakly, and left the room.

Sherlock turned on his side and stared at the opposite wall.  He was adrift in a cloud of pain, and it took all of his strength to breathe in, then breathe out, then breathe in again.

He stayed that way, not resting, not accomplishing anything, not even sleeping, until he heard Molly’s alarm go off and her shower start running ten hours later.

**

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?  Come right this way. Sit wherever you like, and the doctor will be right in.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the earth-toned décor, the overstuffed chairs, and the low, soft sofa.  As the sofa was farthest from what appeared to be the psychiatrist’s chair, he chose it.  It was even softer than it appeared, and as he sank down into it, he felt his knees were nearly at the level of his ears.

_Oh,perfect._

An older man came in, already writing on a tablet. He took the chair opposite the sofa. “Mr. Holmes. You’ve taken medications in the past, yes?”

_And good afternoon to you, doctor. Direct, then. No small talk. Fine._

“Yes. Prescription medications and the street variety, though I’m clean now. For the past eight years.”

“And the state of your marriage?”

“Less than ideal.”

“Why?”

Sherlock quickly rattled off the list of problems: lack of common interests, unsatisfying sex –when there was sex-. There hadn’t been much due to Molly’s flat refusal to use birth control and Sherlock’s own desperate fear of having a child to raise.

“Then use a condom yourself and bring her to sex therapy.”

Sherlock huffed. “She won’t allow me near her if I use a condom. And she is morally opposed to sex therapy. She believes sex must be spontaneous and completely unexamined. She’d rather not discuss the subject even in the privacy of our home.”

“File for divorce.”

Sherlock looked at his watch. It hadn’t been five minutes.  He raised an eyebrow.

“Start using birth control, or file for divorce. Those are your only options. No pill I can give you will help if you’re not willing to take action to fix this situation.”

After clearing his throat, Sherlock spoke. “I see little cause to force the issue of birth control on her if I don’t particularly desire sex with her anymore. So that would not be much use to me.”

“You don’t want sex?”

“Not with her.”

“Who with?”

Sherlock’s eyes darted around the room, and his throat seemed to close up. He opened it to speak, but no sound came out. He pursed his lips and tried again. “A man I’ve met.  My wife doesn’t know he’s more than a friend.”

“Are you gay?”

“If I desire sex with a man, then it would appear so.”

“Didn’t you enjoy sex with women before?”

“I never had sex with women before I married my wife. I was a virgin on my wedding night. As was she.”

The doctor continued to write on his tablet.

“How often to you contemplate the idea of suicide?”

_How do you quantify that?  How do you apply the word often to a constant?_

“Quite often. I would not follow through, however. I have my mother, and I have this man to consider.” Sherlock looked at the floor, his eyes stinging. “Therefore, I only fantasise about it. I will not kill myself.”

“Yes, you will, if you don’t change your situation. Or your body will shut down from the stress and you’ll die from that.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up, and he stared at the doctor.

“Tell me about your dreams,” the doctor said.

**

He was sitting on the park bench again, this time a few hours past midnight.

Beside him, a slim, well-dressed man was cracking walnuts with his bare hands.

“Well, now. Was the big, bad psychiatrist mean to Sherly-werly?” a soft, Irish voice laughed.

Sherlock didn’t look over.

“He’s right. You should divorce her. She’s clingy and such a prude. Your friends did warn you, you know.”

Sherlock curled his lip in disgust. “She can hardly help who she is; I must have known that to some extent.  Besides, she didn’t force me to marry her.  And I don’t have friends.”

“No, no, that’s true. You don’t. I should have said your colleagues warned you.  It’s going to destroy her when everyone finds out she wasn’t enough for you….AND that you went gay.” He made an exaggerated grimace.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

“Then again, maybe Johnny boy is the real problem. I mean, think about it, Sherlock; you were okay with your life before you found him.  Maybe not deliriously happy, but you don’t really think you deserve to be happy, do you?  It wouldn’t feel right, would it?”  He chewed on the meat of a walnut, and continued to crush the empty shells in his hands.  “John came in, turned everything topsy-turvy, didn’t he?  Little homewrecker! Overloaded your pleasure centers, the bad boy.”

“This is not his fault. He didn’t do anything I didn’t ask him to do.”

The madman sniffed derisively. “Oh, I think the word you’re looking for is begged, not asked.”

“He did what I begged him to do.”

“Mmmm.  Oh, hello!  Who’s that over by the fountain? Ah. Nearly too dark to see, isn’t it?” The madman snapped his fingers and the moon shifted from a waning crescent to a bright, full disc.

John was standing by the fountain, looking down into it.   Molly was beside him, doing the same.

“Well, then, no time like the present!  Let’s pick!”

“You know who I’d choose. This is pointless. And I can’t do this now. I refuse.”

The madman dropped the walnut shells to the ground, clasped his hands together, and looked up elatedly at the sky.

“See, THIS is why it’s so perfect, Sherlock. I mean, really, I could hardly make it worse myself. You’re stuck because any direction you move will hurt one of them, and you hate yourself for it. So you stay put, and you suffer. And then you suffer some more. And THAT hurts them, too.  You _are_ _evil_ when you’re a coward, you know that? I would pay you if you could teach me how to do what you’ve done. I mean, it’s effortless!”

“Shut up.”

“The psychiatrist was right, you know.”

“About?”

He moved closer to Sherlock and put whispered into his ear, “You ARE going to die.”

**

Sherlock awoke, a dull pain throbbing in his chest.

Outside, the sky was nearly light. He rolled over and looked at his phone.

One new text message from some time overnight.

_I hope you are resting. You need it. Take care of yourself, okay? Love you!  –JW_

Sherlock put the phone back down on the bed, wiped tears from his eyes.

He looked up at the ceiling.

“I’m not,” he whispered. “ I’m not going to die.”


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock heard the front door open and close, but he made no effort to turn toward his bedroom door or to stop packing his overnight bag. 

Molly walked in and stopped dead. Sherlock heard her sharp intake of breath.

“Oh. You’re traveling?  Is it… are you working on a case again?”

He could hear the fear and trembling in her voice, no matter how calm she tried to sound. 

“No, Molly. I’m going to a hotel for two days. I need a change of location. I need to be alone. To think.”

Molly walked around to the corner of the bed. She stood there, hands still at her sides, trying to catch Sherlock’s eyes.

“But… you’re alone here all day, when I’m at work.  And… and I won’t bother you.  I won’t even turn on the telly. I’ll read, or…”

Sherlock folded a shirt quickly and placed it into the bag. “No.”

“No? I don’t understand…”

He finally worked up the courage to look at her.  There was a cold, paralysed fear in her expression – one he’d never seen there before.  “You’re gone during the day, but I know you’ll be back.  I know you’ll eventually come into this room to check on me.  I know you’re in the next room worrying about me.  It’s distracting. I need to be alone. Fully alone.  I need to make some decisions.”

Tears glistened in the corners of Molly’s eyes, but she did not cry.  Her voice remained remarkably calm and steady.

“Are you thinking of leaving me?” she asked.

Sherlock put his hands on his slender hips. “I hope it won’t come to that.  I don’t wish to hurt you, Molly.  Please believe me.  I just need time to think about what has to change.  This is no longer a life I can live as it is.”

Molly nodded, then quietly left the room.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock’s things were packed, and his cab was waiting for him.  Molly was sitting on the sofa, not watching telly, not reading, not crying…. Not anything, as far as Sherlock could tell.  There was evidence she’d wiped away tears from her face, but her expression was blank, not pained.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll be back in two days.  I have my phone, should there be an emergency.  You might try Mycroft if I don’t answer, however. I plan to switch it off for some of the time.”

“Okay.”

“Well.  See you soon.”

Sherlock turned and left the flat.  As soon as he got into the cab, he felt a wave of uneasy pain flood his stomach. 

Two blocks later, it was worse.

By the time he’d checked into his room, he could barely stand upright.  He took out his phone and texted John.

_Stomach cramps. Possibly something I ate. No point joining me during my retreat. Sorry. –SH_

A few moments later, a text came back.

_Feel better. You need the rest, anyway. Real rest. Call or text if you want, but don’t worry about me. Love you – JW._

He spent most the next fourteen hours heaving and retching miserably, even when there was nothing left in his stomach.

Finally, the waves of pain and nausea subsided, and he managed to sleep.

\--

Sherlock looked down and saw blood dripping from his hands.

He watched the droplets pool together in a little patch of grass between his shoes, and he wondered how so much blood could collect there so quickly, and whose it was.

He stretched his arms forward to expose his wrists – no wounds. He looked down at his torso; his shirt was buttoned, tucked in, perfectly clean. 

So where was the blood coming from?

“I told you once before, didn’t I, Sherlock?  I don’t like to get my hands dirty. You don’t seem to have a problem with it, though.” The soft, Irish voice came from somewhere behind him, though it wasn’t clear where.

“What has happened?” Sherlock asked.

He heard a snort of derision. “Like you don’t know.  Look to your left, my dear.”

Sherlock found that he was able to move his head, though nothing else.  Nearby on the ground, he saw Molly, in her work clothes, still and stiff.  Her eyes were open, her expression blank. 

There was blood all over her chest and upper torso.

Next to her, in the grass, was her heart.

Sherlock felt his stomach heave and lurch again. “No. Stop this. She’s not dead, damn you,” he growled.

The madman walked up beside him and gave one of his signature reptilian grins. “Well of COURSE she’s not dead, you moron. Look at her. She’s still breathing.”

Unable to stop himself, Sherlock watched the rise and fall of Molly’s empty, brutalised chest. Somehow, she was in fact still breathing. Still alive.

“Let me put it back. Let me help her.”

The madman grimaced. “Put it back?  Ewwww! It’s all covered with grass and dirt and insects, now.” He feigned a small retch at the idea.  “That’s disgusting, Sherlock, even for you.”

Sherlock noticed the fountain not too far away.  “I’ll clean it off.  It won’t be perfect, but it will work. Please.”  He wanted desperately to move, but his limbs were frozen.

“Naaah.  That heart’s had it, I think.”  The madman walked over and kicked the faintly-beating heart away. Sherlock watched it roll off toward the edge of a clearing, then disappear.

Sherlock closed his eyes.

“Oooh, LOOK!  I’ve found a replacement!  Nice and clean, strong, too!”

Sherlock opened his eyes and saw John standing a few paces away. John waved at him and smiled, apparently unaware of the blood and carnage.

The madman clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. “What do you say, loverboy?  I bet he’d even let you, if he thought it would make you happy. Wouldn’t even put up a fight.  Tell you he didn’t need it in the first place.”

The madman pressed a long, jagged, bloodstained knife into Sherlock’s hands.

“No.” Sherlock breathed. “Take mine, then. Use mine.”

“Oh, that’s great. Great idea. That would make them both happy, wouldn’t it?  You just dropping out of the picture, taking the easy way out of the situation.”  His voice became a terrifying sing-song “Not..going to.. let you.. dooooo thaaat…”

Sherlock’s eyes locked with the madman’s

“What if I take yours?”  He asked.

The madman grinned, then smiled, then threw back his head and gave a full-throated laugh.

“Oh!  Oh, you are the best! You are more deluded that I’d even hoped.”

The madman spread his arms and offered his unguarded torso to Sherlock’s blade.

“Go ahead.  Do it.  Don’t worry about the suit. I’ve got thousands more. Well, millions, really.”

He closed his eyes and raised his chin. “Come on, Sherlock. While Molly still has time. Take it.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth, closed his fist around the knife, and plunged it into the madman’s chest.

At the same moment, he felt an intense stabbing pain in his chest.  He sank to his knees, gasping for air.

The madman knelt down, grabbed Sherlock by the hair and bent his head up so they were looking into each other’s eyes.

“Really, Sherlock. I’m disappointed.  Very disappointed.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked down to the madman’s chest. The knife was sticking into it, but there was no blood at all.  Small, delicate fingers pulled it out and handed it back to Sherlock.

Immediately, the pain in Sherlock’s chest stopped.

The madman tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hair and pulled him closer.

“Who… do you think…. I AM?” he purred.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock dropped grumpily into a chair as Lestrade shut his office door behind them.

"Am I being called to the Headmaster's office, Detective Inspector?"

Lestrade sat behind his desk, folded his hands, then unfolded them again, nervously.

"Look, Sherlock, you need to understand that your work with us is contingent on, well, more than just your intellect. We have to be able to trust your word. And we have to be able to maintain working relationships with key people. Now, if you alienate those people--"

"You're speaking of my marriage, then." Sherlock, as usual, cut to the point.

"Yeah. And about your extracurricular activity."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "My relationship with John is not a sport. Nor is it any of your concern."

Lestrade leaned forward and pointed a finger directly at Sherlock. "Ah, but you see it IS my concern when we stand to lose the cooperation of everyone at St. Bart's, especially the coroner and all her colleagues who will be angry on her behalf."

"Molly is a professional. She won't -"

"You don't know what she will or won't do. You've never been chucked out by your spouse, Sherlock. Now I need more than just the bare minimum legal access; I don't need paperwork stacking up for days because someone is trying to get back at us for taking your side. So if you make this decision, you need to know that your work with the Yard is over."

Sherlock's eyes stopped scanning the room. They locked on Lestrade's. "You would cut off contact with me? Stop my access? End my work?"

Greg swallowed, but didn't back down. "I would. I'd have no choice, Sherlock. So do you understand, now?"

Trembling sensations began to crawl up Sherlock's spine. "Understand what, Lestrade?"

"Look," Greg leaned back a bit, ran a hand through his silver-grey hair. "Your marriage isn't satisfying. I get it. You don't feel connected. You don't agree on most things. You're lonely. Well, guess what? So are most of the married people you'll ever meet. That's life. That's what happens in marriage. You get over it, you find yourself something harmless to occupy your time, and you deal with it."

"Like your wife did?" Even before he finished the sentence, he knew he'd made a mistake. He wouldn't hold back, however. He was too angry, now.

"No, damn you, like I do every time I take her back! You want to have your flings with John? Fine. Have them, and make damn well sure Molly doesn't find out." Greg looked Sherlock up and down, disapprovingly. "She's so naive, she probably wouldn't suspect you with a bloke in the first place."

Sherlock stood up. "John is not a fling. And what I want from him is more than sex. I want a life with him. Why is that suddenly a crime?"

For a moment, there was no sound in the room save Lestrade's exasperated sigh. 

"Because it is, Sherlock. I'm sorry, but that's how it looks to me. To all of us."

Sherlock let the door slam against the wall as he left the room.

 

***

_JohnHWatson: Sounds like you hit a nerve. It just gets more and more complicated, doesn't it?_

_SHolmes: It does at that. I suppose I could find other work._

_JohnHWatson: Such as?_

_SHolmes: I need time to think._

_JohnHWatson: Well, this is probably as good a time as any to tell you. I have some news._

_SHolmes: ?_

_JohnHWatson: They're shutting down the clinic, transferring the staff to hospitals out of town._

_SHolmes: Where will they transfer you?_

_JohnHWatson: That's the thing. Nowhere. Five of us who were working on the overdose patient from last week are being suspended pending investigation. Turns out the kid was some Lord's nephew. He thinks we weren't vigilant enough._

_SHolmes: That's outrageous, John! You did everything you could. You were in no way responsible for that boy's death._

_JohnHWatson: I know. I'm sure we'll be cleared. In the meantime, though, I have no job, and I'm not currently eligible to practise medicine. The city rent is a bit too steep for my Army Pension, too, so I may have to look up North for work._

_SHolmes: Could I loan you some money? Just until the investigation is over?_

_JohnHWatson: No, love, but thanks. I can't let you do that. I won't._

_SHolmes: So what do we do? How do we proceed from here?_

_JohnHWatson: That's a good question, isn't it?_

_SHolmes: I don't want to give up on this, John. I don't want to abandon the idea of the two of us together._

_JohnHWatson: Neither do I._

_SHolmes: Will we survive, do you think?_

_JohnHWatson: I hope so. We have to. Don't delete me, OK?_

_SHolmes: I won't. Not a chance._

 

_*****_

Sherlock was lying on his back in short, neatly-mown grass, staring up into a night sky full of stars.

"Sooo many of them, eh? D'you think any of the planets have life on them?" A sickly-sweet Irish voice came from beside him. "Oh, wait, you don't remember that planets orbit the stars, do you? The Great Genius!"

Sherlock watched as the Madman's slim forfinger and thumb formed a circle against the sky. "What d'you say, Sherlock? Think that system has people? People with lives? People with problems? REAL problems, that is? Shall we put them out of their misery?" 

The Madman flicked his finger, and the star directly in its path brightened momentarily before fading out. "Boom! Supernova! Well, there's _those_ problems solved. Bet you wish we could do the same for yours."

Despite closing his eyes, Sherlock could not shut out the vision of the field of stars, one of the bright spots now conspicuously absent.

"Ah. Not in the mood to talk, are we? No matter. I'm not interested in your tongue today. There's another organ I'm after."

Sherlock's eyes opened wide. He watched, unable to move, as the Madman opened Sherlock's coat, moved aside the blue scarf, and unfastened the buttons on the crisp, white shirt.

With one finger, the Madman drew a large X across Sherlock's chest. Each stroke was a searing, blinding pain. Sherlock's breath hissed, and he tried not to cry out.

"Now," the Madman said, rolling up one sleeve and reaching deep inside Sherlock's chest, "Where is it. Where, where, where? I know you have one, Sherlock, despite what everyone says. Ah! Found it at last."

The Madman pulled out Sherlock's beating heart and held it up in front of him. 

"You've been having heart problems, I hear. Perhaps you need surgery?" The Madman produced a pocket knife and began to carve a shallow, round hole into the heart's surface. A small amount of blood now escaped with each heartbeat.

On the left side of the hole, he carved the letter I. On the right side, he carved the letter U.

"I. O. U.  Clever, eh? Well, I do owe you some pain, to go with the pleasure you've stolen, don't I? And you owe me, as well. Just a little of your life's blood. Just a bit, with every beat. Not enough to kill you. No, I'm saving that for something special. This, though, this is just enough to drain you. Just enough to make you weak. Well, weak _ **er**_ , right?"

He returned Sherlock's heart to its proper place, and it continued beating. With every beat, now, Sherlock could feel a small pain. A small but undeniable sense of loss.

"Well, I'd better be off. _Ciao, bello_. See you very soon."

Sherlock continued to lie motionless on the grass, staring directly above him into the night sky.

With every beat of his now-injured heart, another star flickered and died.

_  
_

**Author's Note:**

> Note: This Molly is based in part on a real person, not solely on our wonderful canon Molly.


End file.
